Quiet Nights Bring Quiet Frights
by TheWeepingTurtle
Summary: Alive or dead, Grell Sutcliff always seems to garner attention one way or another. Based off of the 1823 Radlet murder. Rated T for brutal and bloody scenes.


**With the information of how shinigami are created given to us by Yana Toboso, us Fan-Fiction writers have a lot of new things we can now work with. It's pretty fun.**

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Alfred Thurtell, the son of the mayor of Bolton, was quite a quiet person. However, as they might say, "Watch out for the quiet ones."

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 _They cut his throat from ear to ear,_  
 _His head they battered in._  
 _His name was Mr William Weare,_  
 _He lived in Lyons Inn._

 _Although his hands were warm with blood,_  
 _He down to supper sat,_  
 _And passed the time in merry mood,_  
 _With drink and songs and chat._

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"Alfred, my dear, aren't you going to eat your food?" a woman, her dark hair held in a bun directly atop her petite head questioned as she delicately set down her silver fork and knife.

Bolton, England, 1823

"The pork is not to my liking, ma'am," a short boy with long dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail responded as he nudged his fork with his index finger. "I do not like it," he repeated.

A frown graced the delicate-looking woman's features. "You shouldn't address your mother as so," she reprimanded.

"Let the boy call you as he wishes, woman," a booming voice called out from the other end of the dining table as the clicking of fork and knife could be heard on his porcelain dinner plate.

Alfred kept his head low as he continued to move the silverware into more adequate positions. "May I be excused?" he questioned, his voice barely covering the distance it took to reach his father.

"But dear, you have not even touched your-"

"You're excused," the man's booming voice echoed over the table in a commanding manner.

A screech of wood on wood could be heard as the young man scooted his chair out and pushed it back in. He quickly bowed before muttering a small "thank you" and exited the room. Silence enveloped the room shortly after.

"There is something wrong with your child, Rose." the large man suddenly stated, not looking up from his meal.

"Our child, Wilford."

The large man snorted. "When I found out you were to have a boy, I was expecting something a little more full of... enthusiasm. He hardly speaks!" He slammed his fists on the wooden table as if to prove his point.

"With your status, I can imagine why he spends so much of his time indoors. He has not yet adapted to the social hierarchy."

The large man merely huffed before cutting into his meat and stabbing it with his fork. "Indeed."

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Alfred had heard every word. Every single word.

"What's wrong with him?"

"His father is a powerful man. Best to stay away, dear."

"He's so clumsy, he cannot do anything right."

He had enough of everyone, everything, life in general. How could nobody notice? He had tried to tell his father, but he had waved it off. he had tried his mother, his sister, his brothers, but what good were they in the end? If he truly told everyone how he felt, they might fear him.

He could be sent to the asylum. No, no; he didn't want that. He couldn't go there, there was no way.

He loved red. He loved it so much. It was the color of roses, the color of his mother's favorite English tea, the color of...

The color of blood.

Was that it? Did he wish for something more to this life? Perhaps he didn't appreciate life at all? It is quite possible, after all.

He had spent several hours gazing through the glass window as the town butcher sliced meat to be hung up to dry on the rack. He heard the squeals of frightened pigs and the sound of blood pattering on the floor. Yes he... He...

He wanted that. That sweet, sweet blood. The blood the color of red. Crimson red.

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Nightfall was the best time to take walks. He had brought a Baker Rifle with him just in case he had to defend himself. Defend... Defend himself? Was that the reason? He did not know. Shaking his head, Alfred continued to walk down the cobblestone street as the sound of a lone carriage could be heard from down the block.

The smell of burning wax. A small flame flickering near the window. In short, the long-haired young man's attention had been drawn. A conversation could be heard; the shouting of a man as the almost silent whimpering of a woman in distress could be heard. Alfred's grip on his rifle grew tighter as a door was thrown open, a resounding sound in the quiet night, and the woman - now seen as a short-haired blonde - exited the building and ran out into the dead night, leaving the man behind.

"Elizabeth!" he shouted as the door creaked to a stop, just a crack open. "Elizabeth, I'm sorry!" The grip on the rifle became even tighter. Ah, so that was why he brought it. It wasn't for defense, was it?

Sweet, sweet red. How would he look painted in red?

A step forward was taken, and then another. Licking his lips, the young man pushed the door to the side. he shook his head. What was he doing? Surely there was a reason for entering this stranger's home?

"Elizabeth?" the man questioned suddenly as the door squealed. Alfred froze. "Darling, is that you?"

Another step forward was taken. Is this what his whole life was leading up to? Was he really going to throw what he has away so freely? He chuckled inwardly. What a stupid question. He never had anything to begin with. Well, nothing of value.

"Who's there?" It was in this moment that Alfred knew he had voiced his musings aloud. A wiry man rounded the corner, a horrified look coming upon his features as his brown eyes landed on the rifle. Somehow - Though Alfred knew not - he had let his fingers slip toward the trigger. "Y-you, drop the gun now!"

Sweet, sweet red, how I love thee.

The man turned to run, however, the ear-splitting sound of a gunshot rang true through the air. A moment later, the gun was dropped. A hysterical noise fled past the brown-haired man's lips as he ran up to and gazed at the felled and now screaming man.

 _Shut him up_ , some voice in his head whispered as he stared blankly at his victim, _or someone will hear._

After a moment or two of gazing at the blossoming red from the man's chest, Alfred blankly walked past the screaming man and entered the kitchen. The smell of freshly seasoned and well-prepared chicken roast assaulted his nostrils, his mind temporarily forgetting that _he_ _shouldn't be here_ and _what has he done._

Glancing around the kitchen, the young man's green eyes landed upon the handle of a small meat knife that must have been set out for the roast. Snatching it up, he returned to the man, knelt down and gazed into his eyes. Whimpering could be heard as tears trailed down his face.

"Sweet, sweet red," Alfred whispered as an angry, almost sad looked entered his eyes. Holding up the knife, he mercilessly slashed the man's throat and and stood up to grab the now empty body and drag it from the building. A long red trail followed wherever he went and he was quite fascinated. He did not even blink when the scream of a  
woman echoed down from where he had just exited. _Her name is Elizabeth_ , some voice provided, _and your name is Alfred Thurtell. You're a murderer. But you don't care, do you?_

The sounds of shouting could be heard a few minutes after, followed by the sounds of growling dogs even longer after that. However, the brown-haired young man did not seem fazed in the slightest.

 _Red, sweet red. So beautiful. I love it. Why can't I have more of it?_

He continued to walk - the sounds of angry people not far behind - until his feet stopped at a muddy embankment. Staring down into the water, the man simply dragged the body in front of him and kicked it off into its own watery paradise because _blood tainted water and now red was everywhere._

It was so beautiful.

"There he is!" a voice shouted. Alfred paid it no mind. He did not even flinch as an exploding pain erupted just under his shoulder blade because he had gotten his wish.

Sweet, sweet red.

Another exploding pain erupted, this time just below his right lung.

 _I see_ , he thought as he gripped the blade he had surprisingly held onto the whole way. _So no-one else will appreciate red. This is why I should have stayed at home. Perhaps I should have stayed at home. At least then people would have left him to his own._

A third pain was felt somewhere just below his right thigh, though by this time all feeling in his body had become numb with pain.

 _I suppose I shall be the only one to appreciate beautiful red. If no-one else will share my feelings, then I suppose no-one in this world should have them at all._

And with that, he stabbed the blade through his heart.

The last thing he saw was the angry faces of men with guns, and sweet, sweet red.

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 **Welp, that wasn't where I had assumed this one-shot would be going. Geez Grell, I sort of feel bad for you as a human, now that I think about it.**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoyed... I guess...**

 **Favorite, comment, and follow? Thanks...**


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